


Silver Anniversary

by mistyzeo



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Established Relationship, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hypothermia, M/M, Memories, Naked Cuddling, Retirement, The shocking affair of the Dutch steamship Friesland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 17:32:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1907724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistyzeo/pseuds/mistyzeo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Holmes remembers the incident of the Dutch steamship</i> Friesland<i> and its repercussions, a quarter of a century later.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Anniversary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vernets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vernets/gifts).



> For Basil's [prompt on come-at-once](http://come-at-once.livejournal.com): "silver and gold."

The first time I saw John Watson naked, there was nothing sexual about it. The sinister and unforgettable matter of the steamship _Friesland_ had drawn us out of our cozy rooms in the month of December, and set us on a path that would ultimately lead to my dear, courageous doctor firing a shot at the notorious Captain Hermanns while simultaneously being thrown from the ship by an explosion on the bridge. I later learned that Watson's bullet had found its mark, but what concerned me primarily at the time was the sight of his body hitting the icy water of the Thames and vanishing at once.

I would have gone in after him, if Lestrade's grip on my coat had not been so strong. He yanked me down from the rail and practically threw me behind him, shouting over the ringing in our ears that the boat that followed behind would pick him up.

I do not like to relive the intervening half hour, but eventually my Watson was returned to me, soaking wet, squelching in his boots, and shivering so hard he couldn't get a word out between his chattering teeth. I took him home in a cab, trying to pile on the blankets, but the shaking wouldn't stop. By the time we were back at Baker Street, his lips and fingernails were blue and he couldn't grasp the doorknob to open the door.

I hurried him upstairs, already taking his coat off his shoulders, and pushed him straight into my bedroom, shouting to Mrs Hudson for a pot of tea.

"We need to get you out of those," I said, when she had called back her confirmation.

"What?" he managed. "Why?"

"You're the doctor," I said, stripping him out of his jacket.

"I _am_ a doctor," he agreed, almost smiling.

"Don't sit down," I said, and knelt to untie his boot laces. He steadied himself on my shoulder when I lifted each of his feet up to yank the boots and socks off. Then his trousers and drawers, followed by his vest, and then he was standing nude and somewhat bewildered by the side of my bed.

It was not quite a vision from my fantasies, but it was close. He was thinner than I'd expected, worn from the toll of my absence and only recently starting to put on weight again. But he was strongly built: his muscular calves and thighs toned from walking miles and miles on his rounds; his broad shoulders less well defined but equally powerful. Now I could place exactly the matching wounds in his shoulder and thigh, the scars like small explosions on his skin, and could visualise completely the way he limped when he was tired and how his left arm had only three-quarters of the range of his right. I wanted to dig my teeth into the scar tissue that crossed his clavicle. I wanted to rub my cheek against the soft, golden hair on his chest and feel it rasping against my skin as we moved together in congress.

But I didn't have time to indulge in admiration or imagination. I stripped myself quickly of my own clothes, urged the doctor into my bed, and climbed in beside him, pulling the quilts over us both. He was absolutely frigid to the touch, and it took every ounce of my will— despite my baser urges— to enfold him in my arms and hold him as he trembled. He clung to me, automatically seeking my warmth, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. His wet hair was like ice against my cheek.

When Mrs Hudson came in, her eyebrows shot up.

"Don't look at me like that," I snarled. "He's hypothermic."

She set the tea tray down beside the bed and put her hand on the back of Watson's neck. "Good heavens," she said, "the poor man!"

"I can hear you both," Watson mumbled.

"Hush now," she said, tucking the quilt around his shoulders. "If that tea's not warm enough when he's ready to drink it, you just let me know."

She slipped out again with a knowing look in my direction, which I tried my best to deflect and ignore. Having failed at both, I turned my attention back to Watson.

"What are we doing?" he asked, his mouth barely moving against my neck.

"I'm saving your life, presumably."

"Ah," he sighed. "Not how I saw it going, exactly, but I suppose it will do."

"You thought I'd save your life differently, somehow?"

"Mm," Watson said, but he wouldn't elaborate. 

I laid his slowly-warming arm across my middle, gritting my teeth against the chill. Gradually the shivering began to subside, and soon I was able to get him to sip at the tea. He refused to loosen his grip on me, however, and as he warmed up I realised that the position of my groin— against his thigh— was less than ideal. His own, shrunk with cold and entirely inert, was pressed against my lower belly. I wondered wildly if it would have been better to be back-to-front, so that if I became aroused I could hide it better, but Watson was doing his best impression of a limpet and wouldn't let me go long enough to turn him over.

I remember thinking I was entirely doomed, that I would give myself away, that no amount of excuses would forgive an erection pressed against the shivering, naked body of my male companion. I was a horrible friend, a disgusting roommate, and an embarrassment to my persona as an unfeeling reasoner.

Despite all of that, my panic and the apparent inevitability of the situation, it was nearly six months before I saw Watson nude for the second time. That time, it was decidedly sexual.

–––

"You're a thousand miles away," Watson says, his voice rumbling through me. I glance up at him, my cheek rubbing warmly against the hair on his chest. It is more silver then gold now, coarser than the first time I felt it against my skin, but I can't help nuzzling against it in appreciation. "What are you thinking about?"

"The _Friesland_ ," I admit, curling and uncurling my fingers on his ribs.

"Good heavens," Watson laughs. "That was ages ago!"

"Twenty-five years," I say, closing my eyes again. With my ear against his chest, I can hear the steady beat of his heart.

"Really? That long?" His fingers skate over my cheekbone and card through my hair.

"To the day, if I am not mistaken." I am not.

The sky outside the window is grey with the promise of snow, but I doubt we will get any. Inside the cottage, with the stove in the bedroom banked and my husband like a furnace beside me, I don't much care. 

"I hardly remember anything about that day," Watson says, stroking down the back of my neck now. "I remember how cold I was."

"You were unbelievably cold," I say. "But you were terrifically brave, and you shot a man, and I thought I was going to lose you."

"I remember how warm you were," he murmurs, bending his head to kiss the top of mine. "How splendid it was coming to my senses with you wrapped around me, mother-naked, with the fire blazing and the sweat pouring off us."

I open my eyes again and push up on one elbow to look at him. His hand slides down to stroke my spine between my shoulder blades.

"What would you have done?" I ask. "That day, if you'd known we would… if you'd known."

His smile widens. "I wish I'd had the nerve to kiss you then," he says. "It might have saved us a few months of fluttering around one another like nervous finches."

I scoot up to kiss him now, and his lips are warm and dry against mine. His moustache, almost entirely white, scratches deliciously against the corner of my mouth. It was a glossy honey-brown when I met him in '81, and only just starting to go grey when I first kissed him. The knowledge that I have seen it change from then to now sends warmth through me. His hand, the one not occupied with the middle of my back, comes up to cradle my jaw and guide me into a deeper kiss, and I hear myself moan softly.

"And then what?" I ask, barely pulling away. I feel his huff of amusement against my lips. "After you kissed me, what then?"

"I'd have pulled you on top of me," he says, suiting action to words. I settle astride his hips and lean down to frame his head on the pillow with my elbows. He brushes his nose alongside mine and kisses me again. "And I'd have demanded you explain yourself."

"My dear Watson," I say, "I had nothing but the noblest intentions. Your life was at risk."

"And I suppose getting me naked was the only way to preserve it," he says, biting at my lower lip. I rock my hips against his abdomen and find myself stiffer than I expected.

"You terrified me," I admit, scratching my fingers in his hair, "when you went over the side."

"It was rather terrifying," he says. His hands are on my hips, pushing me down his body, so that our cocks align. He is hot and hard and rubs against me just right. I shudder and spread my legs further, and his grip on my hips tightens for a moment. "But look at us," he goes on, "a quarter of a century later, and we're still frotting like schoolboys."

"Ah," I say, and kiss him again, "I can't say my experiences at school were ever this divine. Remember when we had to listen in case someone might interrupt us?"

He slips a hand between our bodies, and I jump at the curl of his fingers around us both. He squeezes, thrusting his prick against mine, and it draws a moan out of me. I can be as loud as I like, here.

Watson laughs. "I remember the first time I touched you, you could barely keep quiet. I think I was doing all the listening; you were too busy biting your fist."

Another squeeze and thrust, and I am arching my hips, trying to rub against him in counterpoint.

"Not that I could really focus," Watson says, kissing my cheek and my neck as I turn my head in offering. "Listening to you, not quite able to shut yourself up, was perhaps the most erotic experience of my life."

" _That_ was it?" I ask. He bites down on the tendons in my neck and I whimper.

"Well, it continues to deliver," he says, soothing the bite. "You'd only been back a year or so, and everything I felt for you was heightened. I thought I was going to _die_ when you kissed the inside of my elbow."

I drag the flat of my tongue across the rippled skin of his old shoulder wound. "You are rather sensitive there."

"Let me up a moment," he murmurs, kissing my neck again, and I sit back on his thighs. The quilt falls around my hips, so I bundle it between my hands, ready to pull it over us again. Watson reaches off the bed for the pot of petroleum jelly and slicks his fingers, and then I groan aloud as he takes me in hand once more. He jerks me slowly, his grip strong and tight, until I am squirming on his lap. "Come back," he whispers, and I fold to cover him. Between the blankets we are burning up, and I can feel the sweat prickling behind my knees and sliding down my spine.

"Do us both," I beg, rubbing my hips eagerly against his. He moans and obliges, and his fingertips don't meet around the girth of our cocks. He kisses me hungrily, tongue sliding deep into my mouth. The tunnel of his hand is slippery and warm, and I can rock to meet him, thrusting against his prick, drawing little breathless groans from him. I can imagine us doing this that first time, desperate and uncertain and aching for one another. I remember the look in his eyes when I revealed myself to him upon my return to London— shock, disbelief, hope— and I realise he looked the same ten months later when I put my hand on his cheek and pressed my lips to his.

"I love you," he says, his face flushed, his eyes shining, "God, I love you."

" _John,_ " I manage, and then I am coming, spilling myself between his fingers. He groans and arches and his cock pulses against mine, and then we are sticky and breathing hard and clinging to one another. "I love you, too," I whisper into the curve of his neck, where it is safe.

Watson slips his hand out from between our bellies and holds it aloft, careful not to touch it to the sheets. I drag myself half-upright, propped on my hands, and gaze down into his face. His smile is a little sad.

"To think we wasted so much time," he murmurs.

"Not a moment of it was wasted," I reply.

"I got married," he protests.

"I convinced you I was dead."

We stare at one another, caught for a moment in our own sins. Then his clean hand comes up to cup my face, and he rubs his thumb over my cheek. We forgive ourselves, as much as we can. We have already forgiven each other. I bend once more to kiss him.

I could stay here until eternity, if I had my way. Fortunately, it seems Watson has no objections for the present. Soon he will insist we get up and wash, that we eat breakfast, that we bring in firewood just in case. We will spend the day in anticipation, looking hopefully out the windows, and just before supper the snow will begin to fall. 

But until then I have him here, between my knees, warming me from the inside out: returning the favour I did him twenty-five years ago.


End file.
